


The Results of Reviewing the Reported Rumours

by herebewyverns



Series: The Third Side [5]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Accidental Mentors, And ducks, Crowley and Aziraphale are Legends in their Own Lunchbreaks, Gen, I Am Sorry, I shall try harder next time, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), This story contains a regretable lack of flaming swords
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-06-24 19:28:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19730284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/herebewyverns/pseuds/herebewyverns
Summary: Every army is made up, primarily, of foot-soldiers. While the Generals may gleefully declare war, they are not the ones who will die first, but rather the lowly canon-fodder take up that role. If only there was someone to plead for peace that they could put their faith in…----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Aziraphale and Crowley were by no means the only angel and demon to have doubts about how wonderful the War to End Everything was going to be, but they were the only ones to speak out so loudly against it. They *might* have developed something of a reputation in their old sides…





	1. The Trouser-legs of Opportunity

_The Arrangement was very simple, so simple in fact that it didn’t really deserve the capital letter, which it had got for simply being in existence for so long. It was the sort of sensible arrangement that many isolated agents, working in awkward conditions a long way from their superiors, reach with their opposite number when they realize that they have more in common with their immediate opponents than their remote allies. It meant a tacit non-interference in certain of each other’s activities. It made certain that while neither really won, also neither really lost, and both were able to demonstrate to their masters the great strides they were making against a cunning and well-informed adversary._

_It meant that Crowley had been allowed to develop Manchester, while Aziraphale had a free hand in the whole of Shropshire. Crowley took Glasgow, Aziraphale had Edinburgh (neither claimed any responsibility for Milton Keynes,* but both reported it as a success)._

_And then, of course, it had seemed even natural that they should, as it were, hold the fort for one another whenever common sense dictated. Both were of angel stock, after all. If one was going to Hell for a quick temptation, it made sense to nip across the city and carry out a standard brief moment of divine ecstasy. It’d get done anyway, and being sensible about it gave everyone more free time and cut down on expenses._

_Aziraphale felt the occasional pang of guilt about this, but centuries of association with humanity was having the same effect on him as it was on Crowley, except in the other direction._

_Besides, the Authorities didn’t seem to care much who did anything, so long as it got done._

_*_ _Note for Americans and other aliens: Milton Keynes is a new city approximately halfway between London and Birmingham. It was built to be modern, efficient, healthy, and, all in all, a pleasant place to live. Many Britons find this amusing._

*

Aziraphale and Crowley were by no means the only members of their respective sides with some serious doubts about the inherently glorious nature of, and certainty of victory in, the Great War to End Everything. They were just the two with enough influence/presence/desperation/lack of self-preservation/just-plain- _crazy_ to actually do something about it.

Independent thinking was Strongly Discouraged in both camps, naturally, but it had not taken much for several of the foot soldiers _[1]_ , if you will, to work out that every Glorious Victory comes in the aftermath of a significant number of Dearly Lamented Deceased. And come to think of it, the foot soldiers of both Heaven and Hell had developed a strong suspicion, totally independently, that Gabriel, or Sandalphon, or Uriel, or Beelzebub, or Hastur, or Dagon would not be among that number.

_[1] Wing soldiers? Maybe? An unkind mind might have simply dispensed with tact and discretion and just labelled them all as the cannon-fodder, but this is still inaccurate. Neither Heaven nor Hell has cannon-technology. So there._

Of course, knowing with a deep sense of unpleasant resignation that you are to be sacrificed on the egos of your superiors is one thing. The key issue, for these intrepid free-thinkers of Heaven and Hell, is that if you are too lowly to make any of the decisions then you are, crucially, _too lowly to make any of the decisions._ And even if you _could_ go around making decisions, what could you decide between? 

No angel wishes to Fall, after all, it being drilled in with great vigour for over 6000 years both how unpleasant the process of Falling was, and how positively dreadful Hell would be when you go there. And no demon wishes much to return to the condescension of Heaven, regardless of how impossible the idea even is in the first place. Have you actually met Sandalphon? Yes? Did you have any desire to spend any more time in his company at all? No. And neither did they.

And it wasn’t like there was any third option, was there? Nowhere between the unyielding righteousness of Heaven or the unceasing grind of Hell…

Well…

Until there was.

In his defence, Crowley probably had no idea that yelling to Aziraphale - and the universe in general - ‘ _We’re on **our** side’_ was such an important thing to do. Crowley had tried very hard for 6000 years _not_ to do important things, and he’d be most put out to have ruined his streak like that.

After all, regardless of what mere _reality_ might have to say on a given topic, until you say things out-loud, they aren’t really Real at all. And one should always be careful about what you say at crossroads, as any occult being ought to know, even if that crossroads is a metaphorical one _[2]_

_[2] Especially if the crossroads in question is a metaphorical one! The Trouser Legs of Time are not to be taken lightly, after all!_

Not that the effect was immediate, sadly, or the Apocalypse That Couldn’t would not have been forced to come down to one eleven-year-old Antichrist, his three friends, one angel and a demon and some stray adults that they had all somehow picked up along the way.

But afterwards, when their respective Generals proclaimed that the angel Aziraphale and the demon Crowley had single-handedly prevented the most important event in all of History from taking place… well.

Suffice to say that amid all the groans of disappointment, and the snarls of thwarted bloodlust, and some very carefully hidden sighs of relief from the ranks, there were also a fair few ears being pricked up. Perhaps there was another option out there after all?

A nice, in-the-middle type of option. One strong enough that all of Heaven and Hell had been thwarted in the face of its power and conviction. One strong enough to take in those who sought its protection, perhaps?

And it only made sense, in the minds of these younger angels and demons, that the leaders of this new side were Aziraphale and Crowley. I mean, you’ve heard the stories about them, haven’t you? _[3]_

_[3] Ironically, and yet utterly unsurprisingly, Aziraphale and Crowley have not heard the stories about themselves. They may actually be the only ethereal or occult beings who can say this. In fairness, this is probably just as well, since they would have tried to quash the more outlandish ones and made things so much worse. Worse than what? Oh, boy…_


	2. The Ineffable Figures: Part 1 - Aziraphale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which *nobody* wants Aziraphale to be Disappointed with them, and tartan is considered to be very helpful when choosing a preferred colour...

In Heaven, the Legend of the Principality Aziraphale goes something like this: Aziraphale has been on Earth for 6000 and never *once* has he used his flaming sword. He’s never needed to, you see. He’s just that _good_.

Other angels, like the archangels, they all had flaming swords that they would just whip out for _anything_. Which was undoubtedly Just and Right and Proper, of course, no one was suggesting that the archangels were in any way trigger-happy, or that those who were righteously smote were in any way undeserving of such a fate. Of course.

It was just considered by the lower ranks of angels to be well-worth recognising that the principality Aziraphale had no need to resort to such … measures. If Aziraphale met a force of Evil, they say, he merely has to speak to that person and they tread the path of righteousness ever since, or failing that, politely cause their own downfall and imminent demise in a timely fashion out of horror that they have Disappointed him.

The younger angels could understand this urge all too well. Oh, not that Aziraphale reprimanded them, or scolded them at all – despite outranking them all several times, Aziraphale was extremely uninterested in bossing his fellow angels about.

But he had a … he had a _tone_ when he spoke of the acts of righteous smiting that the other angels got up to. He didn’t tell them that they were wrong, or remind them of the Sins of Wrath and Pride, or how it was un-angelic to delight in the tormenting of others. No, he just… he had that _tone_ that said all those things for him. And a smile which was a little sad for you, as if you had disappointed him in some terrible and profound way, and that he was trying so very hard not to see you as a person who did Bad things. And it made you take a second look at your sword, covered in the blood of Egyptian children, or the salt-water from drowned people that still soaked your robes, and … Well, you just didn’t want to make him smile that terrible, sad smile ever again. Not at you. Never.

Aziraphale did not, in general, like to tell anyone else how to do their jobs, unlike Gabriel or Sandalphon who would swoop in out of nowhere to tear your ideas apart. Unlike Michael, who let you fail, and then stood over you and pointed out all the things you did wrong that led to your failure. Aziraphale would instead pat you on the shoulder and say in an encouraging sort of voice,

“Oh, I have absolute faith that it will all come together as you go, don’t worry about a few minor slip-ups, happens all the time! Now don’t you go about giving up like that, Cassiel, you just keep trying until it works!”

And you were left with both an immense sense of relief that someone believed you could accomplish your goals, and the distinct impression that Aziraphale was telling you all the things he wanted to be said to him. Aziraphale never made any secret of the fact that his job is – while very rewarding, and he wouldn’t want any other, of course not – extremely challenging and not without error. It’s just … it’s a comfort, especially among the guardian angels, to know that it’s not just you. That angels far more powerful than you are still struggle.

That you’re not alone.

*

Aziraphale didn’t come up to Heaven very often - not officially, at any rate - but he liked to ‘pop in’ on some of the more junior levels of Heaven’s many departments and see how everyone was getting along. He would listen politely to the guardian angels when they worried for their charges, dispensed kind words of advice like a maiden aunt and cheerfully informed anyone he’d spoken to for more than thirty seconds that they were most welcome to drop in to see his bookshop whenever they wished, provided that they did not disturb the books. _[3]_

 _[3] How, exactly, one went about disturbing books, was not clear to the angels. Perhaps by speaking loudly? There had been some experiments done – very much not_ _in the Bookshop, of course – and the findings suggested that the larger the quantity of books gathered in one place, the greater the degree of silence that was insisted upon. Further data is being collected now, as we enter Phase 2 of the experiment._

No one really understands any of the things Aziraphale talks about, and he chatters away at such a speed, and with such absentminded pleasure that no one can ever get him to slow down, back up, explain himself. He is like a traveller who has just returned from adventures in a foreign land, trying to explain to his audience the wonders of things for which they have no context at all. Arariel might know what oysters _are_ , what their function is, what their design process was, but she has the distinct impression that none of these things will explain Aziraphale’s love for them and ‘all the different things people do to them.’ She’s a little afraid to ask; it can’t be _decent_ to take such pleasure out of such strange little creatures?

Heaven keeps records, but no one can quite shake the idea that this isn't _at all_ what Aziraphale is thinking of when he talks of his books shop and his latest acquisitions. No one knows what a sofa would even look like, never mind be able to contribute to the principality's careful consideration of possibly getting his favourite recovered, and in what pattern. They try to assist anyway, and the guardians over by the eight tower have hit upon the stellar idea that a tartan pattern consists of so many colours that they can cover many more bases in considering Aziraphale's apparent preferences. It's what they recommend every time now, whenever Aziraphale has to choose a colour or pattern for his clothes, his furniture, his crockery. _[4]_

_[4] One day, a long-suffering demon is going to find out about this. He will not be surprised, but he will need to go and lie down in a darkened room for a week until the urge to shout himself hoarse has passed._

There is a sizeable band of guardian angels over in the Fifth Regiment who adore Aziraphale’s retellings of plays and books he’s recently come across, so much so that he will go out of his way to visit Heaven a little more often just to bring them the latest releases. _[5]_ They especially love the tragic stories, which isn’t a surprise at all. The life of an angel of Heaven is often very tragic, what with all the people making poor decisions and being Lost to them forever, never to be recovered and never to be forgotten either.

It’s cathartic to know that humanity is struggling to deal with that feeling too, but that they’ve actually gone and done something about it by working their feelings out in stories. Angels don’t have the imagination to make up stories, but listening to them is almost as good.

_[5] This is not to imply that Aziraphale is a good story-teller. He is, in fact, terrible at it; too prone to tangents and speculations about what might have been going on behind the scenes or what he feels the characters could have done better if they’d had the chance. [5.2] But he’s very enthusiastic about the whole thing, and will wave his hands around and do all the voices and is, in general, frankly a whole one-man performance artist of his own._

_[5.2] It drives Crowley absolutely mad. More than once over the millennia, the demon has found himself attending some play he'd previously had no interest at all in watching, just because Aziraphale had tried to describe it to him, and now the only way Crowley is going to be able to make sense of the disjointed fragments he managed to sift from the angel's retelling is to sit through the whole blessed thing himself. It's worth it though, to watch Aziraphale brighten up at the prospect of re-watching the play with his ... adversary next to him._

_Crowley absolutely does not find the way the angel very badly suppresses excited squeaks when the performers reach a particular favourite bit to be quite fantastically adorable. He doesn't._

*

The archangels don’t like for anyone to bring this up, but it echoes around Heaven’s halls all the same: Aziraphale is the last of Earth’s Principalities still standing. The principalities that once stood, flaming swords held aloft in righteous protection of Her Creation, at the Western Gate, at the North and South Gates: they are all gone now. Aziraphale stands alone.

It is a terrible thing to see; an angel left alone after his flock is gone.

It is a sight that Heaven had all rather hoped to never see again, once the First Great War was all over and done with at last. For a while, everyone is a little uncomfortable around Aziraphale as they try to avoid the awful memories of that time. Eventually, some angels get past it, or are too new to pick up on the subtext of all the awkward silences that stand in for friendly conversation. Eventually some of the older angels forget why Aziraphale makes them uncomfortable, why they don’t want to talk to him unless they absolutely have to, and just keep on doing that regardless.

Aziraphale doesn’t talk to anyone about it. You’d almost think that he didn’t care at all, except that if you went to the Halls for the Fallen, tucked away on the outskirts of Heaven, you would see that his crown _[6]_ hangs next to those that once belonged to his Fallen flock. He is never seen to visit, but he clearly never forgets. Those who come to remember their own lost flock-mates say that no matter when you visit, there is always a single apple resting at the base of the principalities’ plaque.

An old joke which died with no one to share it with, no doubt.

No one asks for clarification, no matter how many other stories Aziraphale will share like sweets in a playground. No one wants to hurt Aziraphale like that.

_[6] Many ranks of angels have flaming swords to wield, but only principalities and higher ranks get crowns. The title of principality is not an idle one, but Aziraphale goes pretty far out of his way to avoid any mention of that sort of thing these days. If you press him, he will tell you that should the idea reach Crowley’s ears, Aziraphale would never hear the end of it._

_We will allow the angel that one white lie, will we not? Just this once._

The archangels clearly don’t know what to do with a lone, flockless angel that has neither succumbed to the loss, nor Fallen. They do not mean to be cruel, but they are not good with adapting to the difficult and non-standard things in their lives. And they are terribly, dreadfully efficient creatures, archangels.

Outwardly, Gabriel likes to point to Aziraphale is a model of strength in the face of adversity. No one is fooled by his sincerity of sentiment of course, no matter how true the words might be. Aziraphale is not a teaching aid. There are rumours that the archangels are just waiting for the day when Aziraphale is lost too; he certainly enjoys food and the coveting of material objects enough, Sandalphon is heard to mutter to himself, not nearly before Aziraphale is out of ear-shot.

Some say that the reason Aziraphale does as the archangels bid him is because – with all his flock-bonds shattered like that – he just wants to fit in and belong, no matter how little he is valued by them. That even the cold and often mocking company of Michael or Uriel, or the blustering over-bearing banter of Gabriel is better than nothing.

Others aren’t so sure; Aziraphale never seems to actually _like_ any of the archangels, after all. The way he smiles in their presence, a little nervous and a lot put-out, is much more reminiscent of one solemnly doing one’s duty for a better cause. Just getting something over with, before you can go back to doing something far more important.

Aziraphale’s love of Earth and humanity is famous across all of Heaven, so bright that it is clear – even in the face of the archangel’s disapproval – that he feels no shame for loving Her last creation. Kamael started the rumour, but it has spread far enough to be effectively common knowledge at this point, that in his grief, Aziraphale has flock-bonded with a whole planet, Earth and all it holds within its strange borders.

If that were to prove to be the case, then the Apocalypse might pose a few problems, Cassiel thinks and Kamael agrees. Angels will protect their flock with everything they have, and with no other principalities left to ask, Kamael has serious questions about how powerful Aziraphale might be. She wonders if the archangels have thought about this, thinks that Gabriel might have mistaken Aziraphale’s genial kindness for weakness. Cassiel thinks of the way Aziraphale has never, in 6000 years, needed to wield his flaming sword, but that he has always had the options.

If Aziraphale ever took up that sword in defence of his flock… just how many of the archangels would it take to subdue him? And what would the rest of them do, if the day came?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It goes without saying that the guardian angels in Heaven do not get even a fraction of a full story, and also that their whole sense of context for most of what makes Aziraphale himself is entirely lacking. On the other hand, even angels need role-models to look up to, right?
> 
> In the process of writing this, I realised that there was untapped potential in how Aziraphale is always 'The Principality of the Eastern Gate' which implies that there were four gates into Eden, and thus three other principalities running around. Except there *aren't three other principalities running around, and I just... Yeah.
> 
> I have discovered that it's just not one of my stories unless I've broken my own heart writing a chunk of it, so if you cried too, let me know!
> 
> Next up: Hell trying to get it's collective head around the mystery that is Crowley. And failing, because *obviously*!


	3. The Ineffable Figures: Part 2 - Crowley

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Crowley continually confuses his co-workers, and takes revenge via disco music.

The legends told in the lower regions of Hell about Crowley, in the varied caverns and lairs of the minor demons, featured most heavily their fascination about the way that Crowley just… didn’t seem to have stopped Rebelling. And no one was quite sure what he was even rebelling _from_ any more.

Maybe Everything?

Other demons, the Fallen angels in particular, they’d finished up all that Falling business and then just… stopped. They’d settled down among all the brimstone and hellfire and built themselves a nice, ordered hierarchy that wasn’t really all that dissimilar from the one they’d known in Heaven, really, and centred it around the closest thing they had to Herself these days, Lucifer, and just … carried on.

There were reports and memos and paperwork, just like they’d had before. There was an army, that was slowly being built up to resemble Heaven’s one, _[1]_ and an armoury to make the weapons and the instruments of … business. And instead of archangels and principalities and guardians and the like, there were Dukes and Lords and demons.

_[1] Naturally since Heaven was the Adversary and thus the whole reason why Hell needed an army._

And in the midst of all this, right where he’d been back in the Before too from all accounts, there was Crowley. Not quite fitting in, and not caring enough about that fact to try. Asking questions and getting more creative than his superiors would have liked and just… refusing to be cowed.

Crowley had once interrupted Azazel, right in the middle of her presentation on new and ever more effective weapons to be brought into human warfare, to idly speculate on how war-paint was all well and good, but had she considered bringing it into more everyday use? Do a bit of a collaboration with the guys over in Pride’s office? Azazel had hissed and spat brimstone, the very shadows in the halls of Hell writhing and flailing in consequence of her infernal wrath. Demons dived for cover, tucking themselves into small forms and cowering under their chairs and tables, trying to escape notice, to escape torment and evisceration.

But Crowley had just … _he’d just sat there!_ Like it was nothing, too caught up in the brilliant idea he’d had and wanting to get other people onboard with it. He’d been so focussed that finally Azazel had actually sat down and properly talked it all through with him, and sure, no one in Hell really understood how it all fitted together into any of the _real_ sins, but the cosmetic industry was definitely providing Hell with more souls than had ever been projected by Accounting.

Azazel had wanted to take the credit officially, but everyone in Hell knew whose idea it had been really. She’d grudgingly shared with Crowley as co-author, and in the light of several commendations, especially once animal-testing came in _[2]_ , she’d thawed into being – not a fan of Crowley’s, that would be ridiculous – but far more tolerant of his wild ideas than most.

_[2] Another of those things that humans came up with on their own, without any input from demonic wiles at all. This did not, of course, prevent Crowley from taking the credit for that, and filing it a little smugly under ‘Development and Expansion of Pre-existing Wiles’, thus collecting himself a nice non-co-authored commendation for dedication to his duties and going the extra wile._

Crowley was, in a small way, a legend among the lesser demons not unlike the Morningstar had been among certain flocks of angels before the Fall. He was always pushing the boundaries of what was known, and what was so much worse than that, he encouraged others to do so as well. In little ways, sure, but it was there.

What was certain, however, was that the only thing Falling had apparently done with Crowley was take away his fear. What was he going to do, after all? Fall further? The only thing left for him to suffer was total destruction, and as he had been heard to remark to Dagon when she joked (threatened) to him about the possibility; “Well, your Grace, then I won’t have very long to suffer it.”

Crowley didn’t tend to defy the Dukes of Hell very much _[3]_ , but there was a definite suspicion in the lesser demons that this was rather because he couldn’t be bothered. Maybe he thought they were beneath him, somehow?

_[3] Blasting disco music through Hell’s PA system at random intervals does not count. It was all Ligur’s fault anyway. He’d said Crowley couldn’t put nightclubs and disco down as a significant wile, asking what kind of benefit such things brought Hell. Crowley had intended it to be a demonstration of Greed (because who wouldn’t want more disco once they’d heard it?) and Lust (if you can’t get down on a dance floor, where can you?[3.2]). In the end, Beelzebub herself declared that disco was undoubtedly most infernal and provided very sufficient torment for any who heard it, now would Crowley please stop it and never do anything like this ever again? Crowley tried not to be hurt about this._

_[3.2] This explains, naturally enough, both why Crowley has never taken Aziraphale to a dance floor (how’s that for not moving too fast, huh?) and why Crowley keeps getting thrown out of nightclubs._

That sounds crazy, of course, but then again you only had to take a look through his records to see that Crowley’s ambitions were clearly far Higher than that.

Crowley had Fallen, all those millennia ago, and he was _still_ Defying G-d Herself. Other demons spoke of defying Heaven, sure, all the time. But Crowley actively went around just _admitting_ to Defying the Almighty! Like that was a thing he just went about doing _all the time!_

He smuggled children on-board the Ark, just to stick it to Her whole plan to wipe the slate clean. He tempted Her son in the desert and showed his all the wonders of the world. He frequently walked right into the very heart of Rome and brought Popes, Cardinals and everyone beneath them onto Hell’s side like it was _nothing_. Like the very ground shouldn’t have destroyed him.

There were rumours that Crowley had in fact wrestled the angel Aziraphale to the ground once, in an epic battle that promptly went down in human legend. This had been labelled as wild imaginings and falsehoods for some time, until several lesser demons accompanied Dagon and Beelzebub to the demon’s liar one day and saw a statue which clearly commemorated this glorious victory being displayed in a place of honour in Crowley’s home. After _that_ incontestable proof was uncovered, there was no further discussion, and it was added to the list of Crowley’s many accomplishments.

Crowley was a demon who knew no fear, which in such a place as Hell was the most terrifying thing anyone could imagine.

*

In terms of the general perception of the hierarchy of Hell and his own relationship to that unnatural order, Crowley tended to raise more questions than he answered.

For example, Head Office was a major fan of Crowley and all his works, because they were – as we have previously mentioned – extremely effective, if sadly unfathomable. Yet if you actually asked any single Duke of Hell for their opinion on Crowley, personally you might say, and they’d spit to one side _[4]_ , swear liberally about him for a while and then stalk off. There was just something _about_ Crowley that tended to rub the Dukes up the wrong way.

_[4] Or actually straight on your feet for your cheek in asking them questions at all, likely as not. Bastards._

And yet… Crowley was still alive

Hell’s not known for keeping people around if they are both annoying and incomprehensible. So why hasn’t Crowley been destroyed yet?

The answer, if you hang around Hell’s equivalent of a water-cooler long enough, is readily apparent.

For one thing, Crowley’s not just effective, he’s pretty much the _only_ effective agent on Earth Hell has. Hastur was always complaining - back in the fifteenth century, and long before it too - that Crowley wasn’t _really_ trying to be a demon at all, that he was never putting in the hours to tempt people properly and kept cutting corners. Crowley hadn’t responded to the jibes for centuries, but once Ligur got in on the whole thing Crowley’s patience had apparently snapped.

“Are we really _that_ unconcerned with our job security all of a sudden, Ligur? _Really?_ ” With his sunglasses on at all times, and his natty clothes, if the tattoo on his face wasn’t catching light, it was easy to forget that Crowley was The Serpent of Eden. The way he smiled at Ligur at that moment, too wide and all teeth and no mercy whatsoever, their audience was suddenly and _very_ forcibly reminded. “Because if I’m not trying at all, and I’m still wiping the floor with the rest of you for souls earned, then it stands to reason that if I put any more work in then you’d all be out of a job except me, right? And what is it that happens to demons who don’t serve a useful purpose again, hmmmm?”

No one said a word, no one so much as _breathed_ until Ligur’s eyes dropped and he mumbled something that sounded as if it were standing in for an apology. Crowley let the awkward moment hang there just that _little_ bit longer, making his point. And then he whirled around on his heels and strode out of Hell and didn’t send in a report for a whole year. No one chased him about it.

After that, only Hastur tended to complain about Crowley’s work ethic, and only when Crowley wasn’t around to hear it. It was probably more habit by this point than a real grievance anyway.

The problem is, you see, that everyone else gets thwarted by Heaven’s agent until they are forced to give up. Oh, they might manage a little bit of a wile, here and there, but you try _anything_ on the scale that Crowley manages about once a century, and you’re done for. Nothing gets past the heavenly bastard.

But if Crowley was confusing to his fellow demons, who at least shared goals with him, if not patterns of thought, then he was clearly so much more confusing for the Adversary. The angels might be doing all that they possibly could to thwart Crowley’s plans, but they had been helpless in the face of the Spanish Inquisition, or the French Revolution, or Pearl Harbour. They had been totally stymied in the face of mobile phones, or pornography, or bitcoin.

Heaven was so worried about Crowley, it was well-known, that they had an angel – not _just_ an angel, but the principality of the Eastern Gate – on guard to thwart him at all turns. The two had been locked in combat now for 6000 years, and Hell was sure that Crowley was winning, slowly but surely. He must be, mustn’t he?

Some of the more creative demons liked to speculate increasingly wild stories about the dare-and-do adventures that Crowley was having up there on Earth, constantly battling and then escaping the angel Aziraphale. There was even a newsletter sent out on a monthly basis, to selected offices. _[5]_

_[5] It was perhaps a little unfortunate that one of those offices was concerned with the record-keeping for demonic deeds. And that ever since Balaam was replaced in there by Mammon, everyone had forgotten to tell him that these weren't actually real reports. It probably wasn’t important, right?_

The other thing to be taken into consideration was this: exactly how many demons would it take to bring Crowley down? Certainly, you never saw even the Dukes of Hell tackle Crowley in person in anything less than pairs. If there weren’t two Dukes available, suddenly it was all ‘Arrange for me to speak through his …elek-tonics things.” The lesser demons of Hell were, if nothing else, observant. You didn’t last long if you weren’t after all.

Crowley had been the Serpent in the Garden, after all. He had _invented_ sinning, right there at the very Beginning of everything. There were rumours that a small tithe of every single sin committed was paid to Crowley personally for that achievement. _[6]_

_[6] For all you know, this might be true. Good luck getting any kind of answer at all out of Hell’s Accounts Division. Go on, try it, everyone down here could do with the laugh._

Just how powerful was Crowley, when he wanted to be?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! Bit of a mad dash to get this finished and out, but I'm heading off to go be in a field in the middle of nowhere for a music festival this weekend and I wanted to get this posted beforehand. I won't have interweb, alas, so I shan't get to reply to any lovely personage who comments until I get back.
> 
> (am I writing this while sleep-deprived? Of course not, why would you even ask?)
> 
> Next up; we know how Heaven sees Aziraphale and Hell sees Crowley, but how do they see each other's representatives?


	4. The Adversary - Part 1: Aziraphale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hell is firmly of the view that Aziraphale makes as little sense as Crowley does, and that these two should absolutely come as a complete set at all times...
> 
> UPDATE: The lovely [fireflysummers_ao3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fireflysummers_ao3) drew [this wonderful sketch](https://fireflysummers.tumblr.com/post/187802582721/oh-honestly-you-demons-always-with-the) from this chapter! Please do go over there and leave nice comments!

Hell’s views on Aziraphale are divided between those who actually met the angel in person, and those who most decidedly have _not_. The latter category, naturally, contains all of Hell’s top brass and most of its middle management. The former is populated almost exclusively by lesser demons, _[1]_ in particular those brave fiends of the Temptations Department who must boldly venture out into a world significantly more chaotic than the one they were prepared for.

_[1] And a few, very few, more powerful exceptions. There’s Crowley for one, of course. But that’s his job and therefore it does not count here._

This fact is important to bear in mind, because they have two _very_ different outlooks on the Adversary, the Principality Aziraphale.

To those happy souls who have gone through their entire existence without ever actually meeting him, the angel Aziraphale is a weak and foolish Adversary, easily defeated and flummoxed by Crowley’s cunning schemes. This is considered to be only to the good, of course, as it allows Hell to make great leaps of progress in their cause of corrupting the world, even if it is seen by some in the more Infernal Echelons of Hell to be a gross insult that Heaven couldn’t find a better representative from their own cause to send to Earth for 6000 years.

This pleasant and comforting image is supported further by Crowley’s many major achievements on Earth, and the ease with which Crowley appears to repeatedly defeat him. _[2]_

_[2] It had to be easy, Hastur was heard to remark to Dagon. If it was difficult then Crowley would be doing something else with his time. Dagon thinks very hard (and very silently) about that time Crowley spent approximately 25 hours carefully shifting all of the furniture in Hastur’s offices exactly 2 inches to the left - causing the Duke to endure several years of tripping over himself and banging his shins on a daily basis – and how he frequently sneaks in after hours to change every single one of Hastur’s passwords and extension numbers between departments. _

_Dagon does not tell Hastur that Crowley is a petty bastard who is perfectly willing to put in all the work in the world if he hates a project enough._

For the unfortunate demons who have actually _met_ Aziraphale, however, they know The Truth.

Aziraphale is a confusing _madman_ of an angel with _far_ too much innate knowledge of the wiles of demons, _no_ regard for his own safety and the gentle facial expressions of the father-figure no demon of Hell has ever known but still recognises down to the tattered shreds of their corrupted Grace. To those demons lowly enough to be given the grunt work of corrupting souls for Hell’s cause, it is clear that the angel Aziraphale has never seen any reason why Falling should take demons out of his caring purview, and no one is ever quite prepared for it.

Their bosses may sneeringly refer to Aziraphale as The Adversary, in tones which suggest that they had seen better, but down in the lower ranks of Hell, Aziraphale has another name.

A better name.

He is referred to, always and very occasionally almost fondly, as That Mad Bastard.

Aziraphale is an oddly unstoppable force of celestial chaos against whom there is no defence. He cannot be intimidated. _[3]_ He cannot be wiled, for he has seen all wiles before, they say, from the Original Tempter, and he has overcome them. _[4]_ Aziraphale is what demonic nightmares are made of, being the worst possible combination of powerful unpredictability and thwarting intelligence, of affable pragmatism and uncanny perception and – most dangerous of all – of compelling Hope.

_[3] This is a lie, but Aziraphale smiles when he is nervous as much as when he is happy, and demons do not smile at all where anyone can see them [3.1] As such, those demons who have attempted to threaten and intimidate Aziraphale are often confused deeply by his bright smile and cheery if awkward attempts at small talk and are apt to finally give up in frustration at their lack of success. Actual combat with a principality in possession of a flaming sword is, of course, discouraged, since new corporations are hard to get hold of and the paperwork is especially painful for those who were discorporated through stupidity. _

_[3.1] Alright, alright; one of them does, but no one can see that except for the angel who keeps causing it, and he doesn’t count since it’s all his fault anyway._

_[4] Much to a certain demon’s mild disappointment, but to be fair, he hadn’t tried all that hard in case he accidentally overdid it and succeeded. Had Aziraphale actually Fallen at any point, Crowley might very well have set Heaven and Hell on fire._

No demon of Hell is forgivable. They all know this to be nothing but the inescapable Truth. They will none of them be saved or taken back into the Almighty’s loving care; it is the ultimate price to be paid for Falling, and they have each of them paid that price, forever. But to speak with Aziraphale in person, to have an angel ask you how you are doing as if it truly matters to him what your answer will be? In the heart of any demon so unfortunate as to encounter Aziraphale, there sparks the very tiniest, guttering flame of Hope … that they have not Fallen so far as an angel’s love might not reach them.

It is nonsense of course. And were the Dukes of Hell to know of this, they would have called it mere proof of the angel Aziraphale’s foolishness and weakness. So the demons do not speak of it, barely even among themselves. They hold it closely inside their chests and tuck it away so they cannot look at it too hard, in case the examination might snuff that flame out.

*

As everyone in Temptations knows, Hastur, who has never been in a position to try it, is completely wrong. _[5]_ Successfully achieving a proper demonic wiles anywhere close to being around the angel Aziraphale is extremely difficult in practise and Crowley does not get nearly enough credit. _[6]_

 _[5]_ _About many things_

 _[6] Back in the fourteenth century, while Crowley wasn’t looking, one enterprising demon had attempted to Tempt the angel Aziraphale into Lust by seducing him. Aziraphale had been utterly delighted and most flattered by the effort and, when the demon finally gave up in disgrace, was full of helpful feedback about their approach, technique, conversational skills and dress sense for future reference. Lilu was a good listener and went on to be very successful. Crowley to this day doesn’t know who it is that sends Aziraphale_ nucato _every Ash Wednesday, and Aziraphale will never tell._

The issue here is that Aziraphale is, in the extensive experience of Hell’s various denizens, not working from the same angelic handbook as his co-workers at all. In general, angels seek to destroy demons, to wipe them from existence completely if they can, to smite them into total obliteration and to do so painfully if they can. It is understandable; angels and demons are hereditary enemies, after all, destined to destroy each other either one at a time in little skirmishes or all at once when The War comes. No mercy, no quarter, no second-chances – or first-chances for that matter. You see a member of the opposition, you strike if you possibly can before they strike you.

All other angels can be easily predicted and thus either defeated or avoided – depending on the power and confidence of a given demon – well enough. Not so, Aziraphale, whose methods should not work and whose priorities make no sense.

“I know you’re going to say you have to,” Nybbas blurts out, cornered by the angel Aziraphale in the alley behind a warehouse.

He’d been trying to tempt a group of young dock-workers into joining the perfectly good smuggling ring operating out of the next-door property, and so caught up in his wiles that he’d not spotted the approaching danger until it was too late.

“But please don’t smite me. Just a simple discorportation would be fine, I swear it.”

The angel huffs, looking grumpy and vaguely damp from the sea-mist that hangs all around the dockyard this evening. He casts a distinctly unimpressed eye over Nybbas’s attire, at the knife he’d just relieved the demon of with more brisk efficiency than violence, at Nybbas’s fleeing band of tentative followers into damnation.

“Oh, _honestly_. You demons; always with the over-achieving." Tuts the cause of Nybbas's imminent and doubtless-painful demise, before the agent of heaven _actually shakes his finger_ at Nybbas, like that's a thing people actually _do_. "You’ve been thwarted, young fiend, as you bloody well ought to have been – dreadful scheme that, if I ever did see one, those young men you were leading astray are well out of it – and now you want to cause me the extra effort of filing the report on your discorporation as well? At _this_ time of the year too? As if I don’t have enough to do, getting my blessings in before auditing remembers me? I think _not_. No, you’ll take yourself off, you young wiler, and don’t let me catch you getting tangled up with gangs of thugs again. You keep that up you’ll get yourself into terrible trouble, and then what, hm?”

Nybbas has no idea what to say. This isn’t how it goes at all.

“What? But you – you’re an _angel_.”

The corners of the angel’s mouth tug up, and Nybbas tries very hard not to flinch as he is patted gently on the shoulder.

“Quite right, my dear. The angel Aziraphale, at your – well, certainly _not_ at your service, that would be quite inappropriate, wouldn’t you say? – But still, it’s only proper to be introduced, isn’t it, ah?”

He trails off expectantly and Nybbas knows full-well the risks of allowing an angel to learn his name, but Aziraphale’s eyes are looking straight through him, piercing him down to his wretched, flayed core and pulling the answer out of him regardless.

“Nybbas.” He mumbled, hoping against hope that the angel doesn’t catch it.

“Delighted to, actually this is a dreadful way to meet you, but I’m sure that you’re quite lovely in other circumstances, Nybbas.”

Nybbas bridles at that. “I’m not lovely under any circumstances; I’m a demon! We’re not lovely at all!”

And astonishingly, the angel _laughs_ at this.

“Quite right, oh fearsome fiend of … foulness. My mistake.”

The words are right, but the tone is all wrong, and the angel’s eyes are twinkling as he smiles at Nybbas. There’s no way Nybbas will be able to explain any of this to Leonard, Knight of the Files. It is dreadful, and so is the warmth in his chest under the angel’s gentle gaze.

“Stop looking at me like that. Angels don’t smile at demons, you destroy them.”

Aziraphale sighs, casting a dubious look at one of the crates before carefully laying a handkerchief down on it’s top and sitting down on its pristine protection.

“Oh no, Nybbas, nothing like that. We _thwart_ you, and your evil wiles, of course. We work to prevent you from spreading evil, as is our duty. But destroy you? No, not at all. To live with only the goal of destruction would be dreadfully un-angelic, wouldn’t you say?”

Nybbas is very sure that one of them is living under some pretty serious misapprehensions, and it’s not him.

“But, but the _other_ angels –“

Aziraphale coughs and looks embarrassed for a moment. “Yes, well I’m afraid that some of them _are_ a bit, ah … _enthusiastic_ , I’ll admit. It’s the excitement of coming to Earth, I expect. No notion of how to behave, really. But it’s really _quite_ enough to simply stop you from succeeding in your schemes, you young fiends. There’s no need to go overboard, you know?”

Something must catch the angel’s eye, _[7]_ because he abruptly stands up and makes a wild shooing motion with his reclaimed handkerchief. “Now then, away with you, foul fiend, and don’t let me catch you around that dreadful band of thugs again, you hear me?”

_[7] Crowley had wondered where the angel had gone off to, and on spotting a group of young would-be criminals running away from the same direction, had headed towards it with the grim-faced resignation of the experienced angel-rescuer. Sadly, he would arrive to find no excuse for impressive heroics, but rather an angel teetering merrily on top of a tottering pile of crates apparently coaxing a stray cat down from the guttering._

_Crowley would pull the angel down to safety and look for the cat himself, only to find that it had apparently scarpered like a sensible creature. Aziraphale pouted briefly, but allowed himself to be led away in the direction of a fine meal, the demon shaking his head the whole way. This angel, honestly; always picking up strays and fussing over the things…_

Nybbas still has no idea what has happened to him, or his wiles, or his life, but the angel’s handkerchief is strangely persuasive in its frantic flapping and he snaps away to safety, to Downstairs into the Temptations Department, where everything is much more coherent if a lot less pleasant.

Chamos greets him pleasantly enough, and then takes a second glance at his shell-shocked face and sighs.

“Ah. Met the angel Aziraphale, did we?” _[8]_

“How did you -?” Nybbas backs away but hits the (thankfully unoccupied) desk behind him before he can take more than two steps.

_[8] If this appears to suggest that this is a common question around the Lesser offices of Hell… it is._

“Always to same, we all look like someone slapped us with a sack of wet larvae, you know? Feels like all the floor’s been taken up when you were walking on it, don’t it?”

Nybbas sighs. “Is he always like that?”

“What, strangely genial and not a bit of killing instinct in him? Yeah. Don’t try to tell Leonard, ok? She’ll just think you’re lying and send you to Hastur for ‘re-education’. ‘S what she did with Hutgin.”

Nybbas nods, and files away the warning. He wasn’t looking forward to trying to explain the evening’s events to Leonard anyway. Nice to know he shouldn’t if he likes his thumbs where they are, _and he does._

So that’s that.

There’s simply no way to be prepared to face down the angel Aziraphale, try as a demon might. He will show up out of nowhere, no matter where he was reported to be the day before, and not only will he thwart you, but he will do so in such a way that you, a poor unsuspecting and unprepared demon, will _never_ be able to explain to the bosses in a million years.

It is completely infuriating!

*

Of course, some of the brighter and more cunning demons, those with a view towards really Getting Ahead in the Game, naturally make the connection between Aziraphale’s distaste for spilling demonic blood all over everything and the probable ease of defeating him.

These demons probably look up to Hastur as a shining example of critical thinking.

As it happens, and as most of them inevitably discover, Aziraphale’s methods of thwarting demons might not be messy but they are extremely effective…

Nybbas is with a small group of demons from Temptations trying to get a somewhat raucous party to descend into either a full-on orgy or a proper brawl, whichever proves easiest, when there is an unforgettable presence at his elbow, tugging him away from his attempted seduction of the heir to an earldom.

“No, _not_ that one, Nybbas.” Aziraphale murmurs discreetly. “You’re barking up entirely the wrong tree, I’m afraid; no passions to excite at all there. Unless you wanted to spend the rest of the evening talking about his garden designs?”

“Oh,” Nybbas feels very foolish indeed, especially if he’s had to be rescued by an angel. “That was what he was talking about? The seed-sowing was all about real seeds?”

“I’m afraid so.” Aziraphale’s eyes are kindly and not a bit judgemental of him. “First time out, is it?”

“On temptation to Lust? Second, but the first one was … easier. I think. Bugger, and I’m on my final warning for successful temptations too. Now I’ll get busted out of the Temptations Department completely and it’ll be working the hell-hound kennels for eternity if I’m _lucky_ , and by that I mean I’ll probably get fed to them knowing my luck.”

He doesn’t mean to be so open to an _angel_ , but there’s something about Aziraphale that’s unnervingly easy to talk to. He scuffs the toe of his shoe along the edge of a rug, trying to ruck it up enough to trip a waiter.

“Stop that.” The angel tuts at him absently, apparently thinking. “Oh dear, that’s dreadful. And I suppose my thwarting wouldn’t have helped at all, would it?”

“No, so I guess you killed me after all, just didn’t have to put the work in yourself.”

Nybbas doesn’t really mean it, just wants to spread a little of his misery around a little, but Aziraphale’s face crumples for a moment _[9]_ before turning more speculative.

_[9] Nybbas tries to resist the urge to apologise immediately and somewhere across the globe in Japan, Crowley has the sudden urge to viciously destroy something and has no idea why. He settles for nudging the temperature of some pottery kilns up a notch to ruin the batch and moves on. He’ll look into it better later…_

“Well, thwarting your scheme _was_ dreadfully easy, my dear, so I doubt it was all my doing. Still. I think…” And the angel’s tone turns lofty and persuasive all at once, “I rather _think_ that if you were to go and exchange a few words with that young man in the blue cravat over there? You see the one? Yes, I rather think that you’ll at least manage to tempt him into a small act of debauchery or two, for your report of the evening?”

The angel actually _wags his finger_ at Nybbas as he continues, hurriedly. “Nothing _too_ wild, mind you. Though goodness’ knows, I expect he’ll be teaching you a few things judging from your performance earlier. Ah well, you all have to learn somewhere don’t you? Off you go then, run along.”

Nybbas goes, not at all sure what’s going on but willing to give it a try if there’s even a chance of avoiding yet another failure on his record.

He passes Rimmon on his way over, and overhears them riling up three young men and a more tipsy than was truly proper young woman. He’s about to smile his congratulations at them, but notices that judging from the expressions of an older couple and another young man, this is going to end in a loud fight rather than anything more Lustful. He speeds up on his way to Blue Cravat; if there’s any tempting to be done tonight, he wants to get his in before Rimmon can get Wrath going properly.

However…

The fight, the argument, it never breaks out in the end.

Debauchery completed _[10]_ , Nybbas heads back into the ballroom to look for them. The hall has a complete absence of Rimmon – which is already suspicious since Rimmon likes to stay in the most well-light place they possibly can for fear of what might be hiding in the shadows – and the group of young men from before are making the young woman’s mother-apparent giggle like a school girl while her husband watches her with a fond affection he likely hasn’t displayed since their marriage.

This is all _highly_ suspect.

_[10] The angel Aziraphale was indeed correct; Nybbas did learn a thing or two and had tentative plans drawn up for the possibility of further … lessons. Aziraphale has, surprisingly enough, a lot more skill than might be expected for helping others with areas he is less personally adept in._

Nybbas checks all the nooks and crannies of the ballroom without success, although he does run into Chamos who confirms that Rimmon is definitely missing, and suggests that they split up to search some of the smaller rooms spread around the floor.

In one of these small sitting rooms, Nybbas does indeed discover Rimmon, looking very embarrassed and a little annoyed from her position in the centre of a dreadfully rushed-looking devil’s trap.

“Who on earth is drawing devil’s traps in a place like this?” Nybbas asks her, circling around the trap to find a weakness to break it open.

“Can we not talk about this?” Rimmon snaps through gritted teeth and Nybbas’s head shoots up because _oh,_ this is gonna be good…

“I don’t know, can I just leave you here and go do another round of tempting before the ball wraps up?”

Rimmon glares balefully, but she’s not getting out without help and they both know it.

“The Mad Bastard got me. Practically dragged me out by the elbow, shoved me in here and left wittering about the bloody _buffet_ table! Who does that?” _[11]_

_[11] Rimmon had actually been doing very well in her mission to get a fight to break out, and brawls have a bad tendency to send tables flying. Aziraphale had looked forward to this buffet all day, and not even the pride of a trainee demon was going to come between himself and those little tarts with the berries. Aziraphale has his priorities straight, if nothing else._

Nybbas nods like this all makes some kind of sense to him. It doesn’t, but he’s starting to accept that as Aziraphale’s Normal, which is not applicable anywhere else.

“Alright, well we ought to get this down quickly then; I’m surprised you’re not screaming already. Been a lot easier to find you, at least.”

Rimmon shrugged. “It doesn’t actually hurt at all though, that’s the weird thing. It’s just… warm like a sunny day, you know? No burning pain at all.”

Nybbas stopped, his mouth hanging open in what is undoubtedly a very unattractive expression of shock. Devil’s traps are always a little painful, even when drawn by a human. But one drawn by an _angel_? Those burn like Holy Ground, a fact not helped by the fact that any ground that an angel personally choses to protect rather _is_ Holy Ground.

“Not even a little bit?”

“No, weird isn’t it?”

Nybbas nods, but either way they need the thing to be gone so Rimmon can get out of here. He finds what he thinks is a likely rune and using a brush from the fireplace he smudges it out, waiting for the snap of the wards collapsing.

Nothing.

Rimmon and Nybbas exchange looks of disbelief and mounting concern. The rune is gone, and the circle ought to be broken. Nybbas brushes out more runes, becoming more and more frenzied as the devil’s trap continues to be as sturdy as ever.

“What the -? Is this meant to happen?”

“No! What do we even do now?”

What Nybbas does next is fantastically stupid and can only be explained through panic. He sticks his head over the smudged up circle, presumably to see if the thing really is still there, and is promptly sucked into the trap with Rimmon.

“Oh for-! Nybbas!”

“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to!”

“Well you _did_ and now we’re _stuck_ here!”

“I said I was sorry! Chamos’s looking for you too, they’ll come in soon. This will all be fine, I swear.”

“Huh. Not much good how many of us there are if we can’t break the wards and get out.”

“You know, you’re right though,” Nybbas muses, distracted by other matters, “these wards don’t hurt a bit. Isn’t there normally that horrible burning of all your flesh boiling off when angel’s draw them?”

“Yeah. Still bloody effective though. Damn him.”

“Well, he _is_ the craziest angel in the host, isn’t he?”

They settle down to speculate on the many strange aspects of Aziraphale, Mad Bastard and occasional oddly decent adversary.

The problem with Aziraphale’s devil’s traps, which the demons currently sitting inside a prime example are unaware of, is that much like the angel who draws them, they are not designed to hurt anyone at all, merely to keep the demon caught within them out of trouble. Also like Aziraphale, these wards are much more interested in the spirit with which they were created than the letter of the law. As such, unlike other traps which collapse once they are no longer perfectly complete, Aziraphale’s traps will stay in use right up until they are no longer necessary, or until Aziraphale or someone of similar power can set those trapped within free.

Chamos, as is only to be expected, is therefore unable to help our demon friends either, but thankfully is clever enough not to become trapped themselves and instead runs for help. They return in the early hours of the morning with Raum, the Head of Personnel; the only demon with enough power who picked up Chamos’s frantic message and understood what the problem here actually was.

Raum is still sniggering a little when she arrives, but the wards dissolve when she snaps her fingers and she shakes her head as she sends the three of them off Downstairs at last.

“Oh for Satan’s sake, you three. Just go home and report a few minor temptations if you must. I’ll square it off with the bosses. No one with any sense can expect you to take on Aziraphale after all. Call it a success you didn’t get discorporated and be done with it.” _[12]_

_[12] Raum is the only other high-ranking member of Hell to agree that Aziraphale is a mad bastard against whom there is little to no defence. Being of a similar, though more paper-based, mindset as the Mad Bastard, this is perhaps to be expected. She is also the one to personally handle all of Crowley’s reports, assignments and paperwork as a general rule and she gets extremely vindictive for decades at a time when any of the Dukes try to muscle in on her territory. _

_Raum and Crowley have never met as far as anyone knows, and by all unofficial accounts Beelzebub is trying very hard indeed to make sure that this continues to be the case. This is not a surprise to anyone in the lesser ranks, really, although they’ve definitely given the matter a lot of thought. As far as anyone can guess, there are two outcomes; either Raum and Crowley will dislike each other for being too similar, and tears Hell, Heaven and possibly Earth apart trying to out-do each other, or they will immediately take to each other as common spirits and Hell, Heaven and Earth will be unable to stand against their combined force._

*

Of course, every being has their limits, and all demons know that an angel is a terrifying force of vengeance and pain to those who cross them. Due to Aziraphale’s shocking lack of thirst for the blood of demons to stain his sword, some were want to cautiously suggest that the principality might be some kind of exception. After all, being tempted and wiled at by real demons, that had to be over the line for him, right?

Others were of the firm opinion that, much like Aziraphale had odd ideas about having polite chats with demons - advising them on anything from their tempting-techniques to their personal tastes in wardrobes and reading material – he was still an angel and therefore the line just _had_ to exist somewhere. It was probably just in a very strange place, was all.

Finally in the 18th century, the first clues were unquestionably discovered. Naturally, the demon to report on this was Crowley, the only demon who could have witnessed such a thing personally and at close quarters and survived. Obviously.

At the personal behest of Duke Hastur, Crowley had been called to task by Beelzebub themself after he left his post in France where he supposed to be stoking the fires of the Revolution. Crowley had paused for just one second, before abruptly all but _exploding_ into a truly impassioned rant _[13]_ about how he had witnessed the Adversary Aziraphale be imposed upon by a bunch of humans and dragged off for execution because they had objected to his outfit. Outraged at the insult to his sartorial splendour, the angel had snapped his fingers and the humans had all turned on each other, finally executing their leader instead, while the angel had looked on.

Crowley waved his arms around expressively as he then raged that he had _personally_ seen the Adversary collect an associate of his and feast in celebration of such an act of vengeance.

_[13] Crowley’s reports were generally very staid affairs, in which he rattled through whatever he had to say as casually as possible, huffed a lot when asked for further details on any points, and generally gave the impression that he had several other urgent little projects fomenting which he was neglecting by being there.[13.1]_

_[13.1] He did. That angel was perfectly capable of taking himself out to lunch, of course, but what if he decided that he liked having someone to talk to and found a replacement for Crowley? What then? Much safer to be on hand, really._

“And you wonder why I got out of there, my Prince?” Crowley was on the kind of roll he sometimes got stuck in, wherein there was no stopping him and even Beelzebub themselves leaned away from his incandescent outrage. “You wonder why I took myself out of the firing line of that kind of crazy?! Corporations are expensive – you yourself have reminded me twice about budget cuts - _and_ I was in the middle of a very tricky operation to try and replicate the chaos of the Revolution over in England when _Hastur_ went and bolloxed it up so nicely; thanks for that, by the way.”

So furious was Crowley that Hastur actually looked a little ashamed, _[14]_ and Beelzebub looked – _very_ briefly – a little aghast at the thought of interrupting one of Crowley’s moments of inexplicable genius.

_[14] And also a lot confused; as far as Hastur had been able to see, Crowley had been in a bar getting very drunk when he’d showed up to drag him down for A Little Talk. Sadly, Hastur was well-used by now to having to accept that Crowley’s methods were … unconventionally effective, and he did seem awfully convinced of his success._

“Can your efforts still bear fruit?” Beelzebub was nothing if not focussed, and in the face of greater chaos being unleased upon Earth, they felt that they entirely understood and supported Crowley’s use of his own initiative.

Crowley huffed, still ruffled and furious, but now appearing to speculate on whatever plans he’d been putting into motion before this … meeting.

“Doubtful, what with the bloody _mess_ Hastur’s made of everything, though of course-“ he hastened to add as Beelzebub’s face fell into a scowl. “Of course, I shall do my very _utmost_ to salvage what I possibly can from the wreckage. Whatever that may be.”

Crowley always had a way to capitulate to the Dukes of Hell’s demands while conveying the impression that he was, in fact, doing them a frankly enormous favour. It was very impressive and many of the lesser demons around the room were furiously taking notes.

Beelzebub’s glare turned upon Hastur, at whose feet Crowley had now successfully laid all the attention and the blame for events not turning out in a profitable manner.

“Go then, Crowley,” Beelzebub waved the demon out and Up, “I am sure that Hastur is most apologetic to have interrupted your work, and whatever you manage after this disruption will, I am certain, be well-worth our time.”

Crowley bowed low, as was only appropriate, and did not waste any time making his way back to Earth. Hastur’s screams rang down the hallways in his wake. _[15]_

_[15] It was only fair, after the shock the bastard had given him, Crowley thought to himself, but he was never ever going to tell Aziraphale that he’d just been cast in the role of vengeful destroyer. The angel would be horrified._

_As he reached the top of the escalator, Crowley pondered the day’s events and decided that the next time Hastur and his ilk came to get him, he wanted something a bit more substantial than a hastily thought-up half-true story to hit back with. He’d have to think about it…_

*

No one had really heard from Crowley in some time, and while no one in Hell – especially not the Temptations Department - actually _worried_ per se, there was still a vague sense of unease. He hadn’t been discorporated, that much was certain, and every occultist and amateur-wizard had been checked in case of trapped demons being held in their attics and basements, as a precaution. It was, as was later written in Nybbas’s report, far better to be safe than sorry: what if the person to properly trap one demon fancied to get themselves _two_ for good measure, after all?

Clearly the angel Aziraphale didn’t know what had happened either, and he was showing some distinct signs of feeling his rival’s loss which had the Temptations Department _really_ worried. Off-kilter and increasingly unstable-looking, already maverick, powerful angels were not just worrying, they were the stuff of occult nightmares. Nybbas had taken to dropping into Soho and hovering around the angel’s preferred bakery in order to check on him. _[16]_ Others suggested, before being stared down in great disbelief, the possibility of replacing Crowley.

“Not permanently!” Rimmon hastened to add when she brought it up, more tactfully than Chamos had. “I don’t mean that we should write Crowley off as a lost cause or anything! Just… you know, give the angel someone to fight with for a bit? Take his mind off it, you know?”

_[16] He’d tried initially to go to the Bookshop, as the more direct route. After he’d somehow found himself halfway down the wrong alleyways, heading in the opposite direction to what he’d intended three times, he gave up on the stealthy approach and simply snapped a miracle to appear directly outside the door. The pavement outside the Bookshop had promptly burned the soles from his feet, before tipping him unceremoniously off the flagstones and into the road beyond them. He was then hit by a new horseless carriage contraption and then kicked by an irate horse. [16.1] It is perhaps a sign of true dedication to the Demonic Cause, that Nybbas continued to check on Aziraphale’s well-being in the absence of his nemesis. [16.2] Though after the afore mentioned incident, he took to firmly avoiding the Bookshop, which seemed to him to be distinctly occult in personality._

_[16.1] This horse may have disliked demons in general, or been personally offended that he didn’t get first dibs on hurting this one in particular, being beaten by these interlopers, we can never be sure which._

_[16.2] It wasn’t being kind, don’t be ridiculous! It was … checking one’s enemy for weaknesses._

The various denizens of Hell, as previously mentioned, do not do a lot of worrying for other people, and as such are very bad at it when confronted with the urge. On the other hand, the Temptations Department was trying.

Leonard, Knight of the Files, sighed, heavily. They were not paid enough for this nonsense, they really weren’t.

“Alright, send Martinet up, see what he can do, yeah?”

Nybbas wrinkled his nose a little in distaste, but said nothing. Martinet was frightfully …keen. Yes, that was the best word for it. Keen. Apt to dive in without thinking too. Either Leonard had a lot more faith in his ability to occupy a rival-less angel than Nybbas did, or Leonard had finally got fed up of Martinet’s tendency to interrupt meetings with ‘clever ideas’. _[17]_

_[17] Unlike Crowley’s ideas, Martinet’s were either utterly unoriginal, or genuinely terrible and unworkable. Wanting to be like Crowley was understandable, but actually thinking that you were even close was a sign of Hubris so large, you were likely to be docked by Accounting for sampling the temptations personally._

“Now look, Martinet you wannabe maggot.” Leonard snarled before sending him and his team Upside. Nybbas had been unceremoniously told that he had to join them despite all the mutual grumbling about it. “This ain’t permanent and it sure ain’t even an official secondment unless you pull off something worthwhile with your time. I need to see results before I got traipsing my ass into the line of fire and tell Raum you’re officially assigned to Earth, you hear me? She hates it when people mess with her system, and you’re not worth it ‘til you’re _worth it_ , got it?”

And that was how they all arrived here, in mid-September 1940 AD, in _London_ , the angel Azirapahle’s very own stomping ground, getting rained on while listening to Martinet gloat.

The _plan_ , if plan it could be called, is this: as soon as the bombs began to fall, the humans of England had considered the great cathedral of Saint Paul’s to be of particular importance. It’s distinctive domed roof had provided the backdrop to many posters and broadcasts intending to signify calm and inevitable triumph. The demons had done some digging and discovered that Prime Minister had made arrangements with the fire brigade to protect Saint Paul’s Cathedral at all costs from bombing or fires. So, naturally, Martinet had made plans for the building’s destruction.

“This will earn me my first Commendation, and no mistake!” He brayed on for the fifth time. “It’s brilliant! Destroying a church, shattering national morale _and_ , if all goes to plan, discorporating an angel into the bargain? Perfect, I tell you!”

“Excuse me,” said a voice so cold and frigid, Nybbas was amazed the wet pavement hadn’t come over all icy just from proximity. “I might be mistaken, but I believe that you are rather … new… around these parts.”

The group of demons whipped around, guilty as, well, as Hell.

Sure enough, standing illuminated by some unseen light-source, was Aziraphale. He was all bundled up against the chill and the damp in his mackintosh and trilby, and had any of the demons been in the habit of attending the cinema then they might have had a bit more warning for the unpleasant, well, _show-down_ that was about to commence. _[18]_

_[18] Sadly, demons are not much for stories, and therefore do not attend cinemas at all, so film noir is entirely lost upon them. Had he ever found out about this evening, Crowley would have been utterly dismayed not to have witnessed Aziraphale inadvertently performing as a British Humphrey Bogart._

“Aziraphale, I presume?” sneered Martinet, bolstered by whatever bravado he’d built up inside himself. Nybbas winced. Angel’s might be dreadful as a rule, and this one might be a mass of comfort and confusion specifically, but you did _not_ speak to Aziraphale like that.

The angel raised one contemptuous eyebrow. “Indeed. And you are?”

Seeing his (temporary, even had there been any doubt before this moment, Nybbas was certain he’d be _very_ temporary) leader start to puff himself up for a dramatic speech, Nybbas leapt in.

“Evening Aziraphale, this is Martiet. He’s – ah – just stepping in while Crowley’s off … doing something.”

Aziraphale seems surprised to see Nybbas here, and the demon tries very hard to look like he is standing with Martiet and his idiots by pure chance, and not in any way by choice.

“Good evening, young fiend.” Aziraphale greets him, and Nybbas relaxes slightly. Perhaps he will be spared by the strange angel after all. “Is there word on the demon Crowley’s – ah – whereabouts?”

“Top secret, I’m afraid,” Nybbas lies, not wanting to admit that no one has a clue, “very devious stuff though, you can be sure of that.”

“I had never a single doubt, I assure you. Such a wicked demonic force, Crowley. _Unlike_ ” and here Aziraphale’s voice returns to its frigid tones, “ _this_ personage. Honestly. I realise my audience when I say this, but is _nothing_ sacred – no, don’t answer that, it was merely an expression, vile demon.”

Martinet snapped his mouth shut with a click. He looked stunned. Apparently, now that he was actually faced with Aziraphale, standing calmly facing down seven demons, he was less sure of himself.

“Thankfully, you were as unsubtle as you were ill-planned and I have thwarted your demonic mission before it so much as began, oh creature of the Pit.” Aziraphale intoned solemnly.

Nybbas was struck by the curious sense of drama in the whole occasion, but he was most concerned with being pretty sure that he’d do a great deal to never hear Aziraphale sound so cold and harsh ever again. The angel’s voice sounded unnatural like this, like he was one of the _other_ angels, who crushed demons underfoot rather than patted them on the shoulders and swapped their drinks for better ones. If this was what Aziraphale was like when he was missing having Crowley as his nemesis, then Nybbas needed to convince the others to help him find the other demon as soon as they could; this needed to stop already!

“What have you done?” Nybbas gasped out, mind racing to think of how Aziraphale had discovered them, and what he might have done in retaliation. Were there angels waiting all around them to destroy them all for their scheme? Would he smite them personally? What?

Aziraphale’s eyes held the faintest trace of a mischievous sparkle as he looked at Nybbas. His mouth remained grim, and his stance was stiff, but just there in the deepest depths of his eyes there was a hint of amusement.

“I’m rather afraid that you cannot destroy Saint Paul’s, as I have stolen the building away entirely to safety.”

“What.” Nybbas couldn’t comprehend it, but they all swung back around and sure enough, the whole great building had disappeared form behind them, leaving only Holy Ground behind. “No, _what?_ How -?”

“Oh, the humans won’t notice until the danger has passed, I’ve arranged matters carefully enough that it will all seem quite as it ought to be. But until your people have been thoroughly thwarted away from such notions, it seemed rather sensible to – ah – remove temptation as it were.”

Nybbas is floored, and he makes no attempt to hide his incredulity when he bursts out, “So you just, what, _stole_ , a building?!”

Aziraphale looks faintly hurt, the Mad _Bastard_. “Borrowed it, Nybbas. I only _borrowed_ it. I’ll put it right back where it belongs when it’s safe, of course.”

“ _Put it back!_ ” Howls Martinet, fury finally boiling over at seeing all his plans come to nothing.

Aziraphale sniffs, pointedly. “Indeed not. Certainly not until _you_ are sent back Downstairs and found a more suitable role. Honestly, thinking you were any match for Crowley, the nerve.”

It is almost touching, Nybbas thinks, how those two rivals had developed such a healthy respect for each other, but that was probably what such a long-running and fierce rivalry did for you. No substitutions would be accepted, it seemed. As was only right and proper.

“You cannot thwart my plans, _angel_.” Martinet sneered, and then was suddenly flung backwards into some railings and pinned there like a displayed insect.

“ _Never_ ,” snarled Aziraphale, showing bright teeth and glowing eyes in the darkness, wings bleeding from white to a strangely menacing silver in the moonlight as they flared up behind him, looking more demonic than his company in his rage, “ _never call me such a thing again! In fact, never speak to me again, demon.”_

Nybbas isn’t even the demon to so offended the angel and he’s still cowering and whimpering in fear. The anger of an angel is a terrible thing regardless, but somehow Aziraphale’s is so much more so, hard to provoke as it is.

They snap away as fast as they can, though by the time Martinet makes it Downstairs his hair is smoking and his eyes a wild with fear.

No one suggests they try again to find Aziraphale a substitute nemesis, though their efforts to find Crowley redouble.

*

In the end, Crowley finds himself.

His triumphant return is marked, somewhat ironically, by his destroying a church right next to the angel Aziraphale the following year.

“I just felt like it, all those bombs flying around, you know?” Crowley explains, looking _very_ casual as he saunters into the office at last. “Seemed a shame to waste them all on dockyards and stuff. More style to it this way, and collecting a couple of Nazis a few years early into the bargain? Totally worth it.”

Nybbas is usually pretty shy around Crowley in person, he’s so cool, you know? But his relief at Crowley’s return is temporarily stronger than his nerves and he grabs Crowley’s hand to shake it like he’s seen humans do it.

“It’s, it's just so great to have you back, Crowley. You promise you won’t leave us again for a while, yeah?”

No one even thinks to make fun of Nybbas, though Crowley himself seems utterly bewildered, especially when some of the others take to slapping him on the back in welcome as well.

It’s good to have things back the way they should be. Aziraphale might make more sense now he’s got his proper rival back as well, which will be its own strange kind of relief.

*

Aziraphale – the Mad Bastard - fears nothing; not Heaven’s wrath, not Hell’s ruin, not discorporation, not Falling, not _anything_.

It’s terrifying, and those who have met him have serious concerns about whether it is even possible to take him down against his will. Much like Crowley, he makes very little sense to any of them, and everyone is very glad that the angel is so very definitely someone else’s problem. He and Crowley were well-suited for one another, that’s for sure!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nucato, for those who might be wondering, is a fourteenth century treat of spiced honey walnuts. The recipe was found in _Libro della cucina del secolo XIV_ , a collection of 14th Century Italian recipes. They sound delicious, by the way.

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this, check out my blog for random thoughts on writing, fantasy, dragons and folklore. Also there's a tiny dragon as a guest-star, so that can't be bad!  
> I can be found at: <https://herebeblog.wordpress.com/>


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